Jean-Jacques’s wine came; he thanked Citizen Procope and handed him five sous. He sniffed the bottle and pulled a face. ‘Not bad,’ he observed. ‘Want some?’

Carton never refused wine. ‘Thank you.’ He held out his glass.

Jean-Jacques filled it generously. ‘You know my sister?’

‘Amélie?’

‘No, no! Amélie’s a good woman, she never does anything except what she’s told. Marie-Claire.’ He drank half of his glass. ‘I wish I had some decent cheese to go with this.’

Carton liked Jean-Jacques. There was a good humour about him, an optimism, misplaced as it was, that lifted the spirits. He was pleasant company.

‘What about Marie-Claire?’ he asked, to be civil. He did not care in the slightest. To tell the truth there was very little he did care about. He had no belief in himself, nor any in justice or the goodness of life. Experience in London as a lawyer had proved his skill, but it had not always led to victory, acquittal of the innocent, or punishment of the guilty.

Jean-Jacques leaned forward over the table, his round eyes bright, his face alive with suppressed excitement. ‘She has a plan,’ he said softly. ‘To get a whole crateful of cheeses, and not just any cheeses, but perfectly exquisite, ripe Camembert! And a side of bacon!’

In spite of himself Carton’s imagination was caught. Even the bare words conjured up the fragrance of rich, delicate flavour, food that satisfied, that filled the nose and lay on the tongue, instead of the rough bread and stew with barely any meat in it that had become the common fare. Even though these days one was glad enough to have more than a spoonful or two of that. ‘What sort of a plan?’ he said dubiously. Marie-Claire was an erratic creature. Younger than Jean-Jacques, probably not more than twenty-two or three, small like him, with wide brown eyes and wild hair that curled just as hectically as his, only on her it was pretty. She had been one of the women who had marched on the palace at Versailles demanding food and justice in the early days of the Revolution when the king was still alive – fruitlessly, of course. The king had listened to everybody, and then done whatever he was told by the last person to speak to him, which was always some minister who did not listen at all.